


Second Chances

by madnina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Abuse, Dog!John, Fluff, Gen, Reincarnation, shitty stray dog life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnina/pseuds/madnina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up in a strange place. He's not sure where he's landed, but only one thing matters: getting back to Sherlock. Unfortunately returning to Baker Street is not so simple when you're dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

John opens his eyes.

This is not where he’d expected to wake up.

For starters, he was in a different building. This place is much larger, a high-ceiling hall. A train station? There are crowds of people bustling, walking briskly, waiting in queues. Some of them are talking to uniformed assistants smartly dressed in blue; large marble stairs probably lead up to the platforms. John gets up and scans the area. He has to get out, get back to Sherlock, God knows what has happened to him - but there are no exits that he can see, and the signs only indicate platform numbers.

Then he looks down at himself. He’s wearing his checkered shirt and red cardigan. That’s very distinctly not what he’d worn today - it’s January and it had been dry and cold that morning and he’d put on his beige shirt and brown jumper, plus his black jacket.

And more importantly, there is no gaping bullet wound in his chest.

He knows he’s been shot. His last memory is of pain, and the sharp iron taste of blood in his throat, and Sherlock’s wide-eyed face mouthing something to him.

He looks under his shirt. There’s nothing; no pain, no scar, not even a bandage. How much time has passed while he was unconscious?

Swallowing down a slowly rising panic, he decides he needs to get out, get back to Baker Street, figure out what had happened. He takes out his phone. No signal. Right. Maybe he can take a train back to London. There are no machines for buying tickets. He queues at one of the kiosks. The other people in the queue are decidedly odd. People are mulling about, looking confused. Some of them are looking around with fascination as if seeing a train station for the first time. Some are even wearing their pyjamas or a nightgown.

John isn’t sure how much time has gone by when it’s suddenly his turn. He approaches the clerk lady, who greets him with a bored drawl.

“Name please?”

“John Hamish Watson,” he stammers , wondering what has compelled him to give his full name.

The woman types in his name on a computer and clicks for a bit.

“I just want a ticket for the next train to London, please” John asks as politely as he can, despite the tightness in his throat.

The woman ignores him.

“Excuse me, I just want a single one-way to London. I have cash,” he repeats, fishing for his wallet.

“Well sir, according to your account balance, you can do a great deal better than London.”

“My account balance? How the hell do you-“

“Sir! Please, I’ll have to remind you that there’s no blasphemy here.”

The woman points to the sign taped to the window. She then quickly types something on her computer.

“Your account indicates you have enough karmic balance for an open single to Moksha; do you wish to book your ticket now?”

“I don’t want to go to… wherever, I want a ticket to London!”

“Then you’ve got the wrong line, love. This is the kiosk for one-ways to Moksha. Karmic re-assignments are at the kiosk for Samsara near platform five. NEXT!”

John wants to protest, but an elderly woman wearing a bathrobe is already pushing her way in. Dejected, he wanders over to the signs indicating platform five, and sure enough, there is a line of kiosks there. These are more comfortable, with a chair facing each agent sitting at desk-level.

John tries to stop his leg from nervously tapping the floor as he waits. Finally he’s assigned an agent, and before the young well-combed man can open his mouth, John starts talking.

“Right, I don’t care about going to Samsara, or Moshka or wherever. I just want to get to London on the next bloody train. So please - _please_ \- just get me a one-way ticket for that.”

The young man stares at him with his mouth slightly open.

“Sir, you _do_ realise where you are?”

“Look, whatever the hell - sorry, whatever the heck this place is, I just need to get to London. As soon as possible.”

The clerk looks at him over his glasses. “Sir, this is All Souls Triage Station.”

“Yes, I saw the signs.”

“You realise you’re not on Earth anymore?”

“I’m sorry - what?”

“You’re not on Earth anymore. You’re deceased. I’m sorry, has there not been an Orientation Officer to explain things to you?”

“I’m… dead?”

The clerk nods slowly, staring at him as if he was an idiot.

“Everyone here is… dead.” He looks around, really observing this time. The people around are mostly elderly, wearing strange clothes; some of them hospital gown or nighties, others are wearing retro clothes that have a definite 50’s or 60’s vibe. They’re all alone, most of them standing around as if waiting for something. He feels nauseous.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not to worry,” says the clerk jovially. “That’s just a feeling, you can’t actually be sick anymore. Anyways, your name?”

“John Watson. John Hamish Watson,” John whispers. This can’t be happening. He can’t be dead. Sherlock was still in that underground bar surrounded by armed smugglers.

Sherlock. His head snaps up in sudden realisation.

“Sorry, can you check on that computer if someone else is here? If they’ve died or not?”

The clerk purses his lips. “We-ell, normally you’d have to go file a request at the Waiting Room for Relatives, Friends, and Significant Others, but if it’s just one person I can do a quick check.”

John gives him Sherlock’s full name and for a few anxious minutes the clerk taps away on his keyboard.

“No, Mr Holmes is still back on Earth. I can’t tell you when he’s scheduled to arrive here, it’s against policy.” He points to a piece of paper tacked to the front of the desk.

John sighs and puts his head in his hands. God, this is awful. Sherlock is on his own. Can he trust the stupid git to have enough sense of self-preservation to get himself out alive?

“Well sir, you have enough balance on your account for a nice choice of karmic re-assignment options. I assume you’d prefer human? I have a banker’s son in Dubai, a farmer’s daughter in Iowa - some people prefer a rural environment after a busy life. Any preferences?” John looks back up.

“So I can go back? To Earth?”

“Well yes, your balance has had a good top-up, you did well - army doctor, standing by a family member in need, saved two hundred and eighty-one lives directly, and of course your demise: violent death by heroic sacrifice, that’s an extra hundred and thirty points. You have a nice choice of pleasant non-violent lives with peaceful ends if you want another go before moving on to Moksha.”

“Moksha? Where’s that?”

“The final destination. Where souls go to be one with the world, eternal bliss - honestly, haven’t you at least read the pamphlet?”

“No, I haven’t. Look, I need to get back to London. There’s someone that still needs me.”

“London, eh? Let’s see. I have the son of a school teacher and a GP in Camden that’ll be available in a few days. You realise of course that you can’t remember past lives when you go back. It’s-“

“Policy, yes. Look, I have someone who really, _really_ needs me in London, right now, and unless I get back to them, they’re probably going to end up blowing themselves up or forgetting to eat. It’s not just personal, he does good, he helps people, saves lives.”

“I understand sir, but Past Life Memory Preservation is a costly karmic option. You’d be using up nearly all your points. I’m afraid you can’t come back as a human and remember your past.”

“What’s the best I could come back as?” Even as a pigeon he could be useful. He could flap into Sherlock’s face to prevent the idiot from doing something stupid.

“Well, I could do housecat. Or dog, but it’d have to be street dog. Difficult conditions, no guarantees for survival to adult age, but I daresay with a human intelligence you’d do well enough.”

A dog. That’s… better than he could have hoped, considering the circumstances. He could find Sherlock and still protect him. Dogs could bark, bite, fetch things. He could manage a dog.

“I’ve got a litter being born behind a dumpster in Hampstead right now. I assume you’d prefer male?”

“Yeah, that would be better.”

“Right.” The young man makes a few clicks, then prints off a sheet of paper. John signs it absentmindedly.

“All’s in order then, sir. Platform three. You’d better hurry, you have five minutes.” John climbs the marble staircase to platform three and boards the train there. There’s a few other passengers, looking as dazed and lost as he is. He doesn’t even feel the train lurch forward and chug out of the station, his mind drifting into nothingness. He feels peaceful and content. In a few months (how long does it take for dogs to grow up? Three months? Four?) he’ll find Sherlock again. His thoughts fade around the memory of Sherlock’s wide-eyed, scared face, mouthing his name.

—

John awakes again and it’s _cold_. Freezing cold. He’s wet, chilled to the bone, and not sure where or what he is. The world is a miasma of confused sounds and smells. He tries to open his eyes but can’t.

Suddenly, something big and warm and wet covers his back and neck. Again and again. He tries to cry out in alarm, but only a high-pitched whine escapes him. There are several other warm bodies near his.

_Oh_. Suddenly he remembers, in a painful flash. Memories in his head. He is John Watson. Army doctor. Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate. But also, he isn’t. He’s a small pathetic ragged creature. Everything is unfamiliar and terrifying and he is weak and useless.

The only comforting thing is the tantalizing smell tugging at his nose, inciting him closer to a large warm body. He forces his ridiculous limbs and body to shuffle towards it. It take an excruciatingly long time before he is pressed against a warm stomach.

_Survive, so you can find Sherlock_.

He latches on to the warm teat and suckles.

—

Keeping his mind and his memories is difficult. He struggles everyday against the distracting urges to smell and taste a million things (he never suspected London was so full of fascinating smells).

_I am John Watson. I was an army doctor. I have to find Sherlock Holmes._ He repeats the prayer to himself several times a day. It becomes a mantra around which he attaches all his memories. His childhood, his medical training, the years with the RAMC, the years with Sherlock. He makes a mental list of all of Sherlock’s cases; the ones he wrote about on his blog and the ones he’d ever gotten a chance to.

His mother (it seems cold to just think of her as a bitch) is a watchful and kind presence. They’re on a cobbled street behind a dumpster (Joiners Lane in West Hampstead, John reads as soon as his eyes are open). It’s still bitterly cold and one of the smaller pups in the litter dies after only two days. Every night they sleep huddled against each other, desperate for warmth. Their mother fends off rats and other stray dogs, all thin and starving and eager to snatch a defenceless pup for a meal. After a month, John and another female pup (he calls her Harry in his mind) are the only surviving ones. John wants to explore the street and the wider neighbourhood but his legs are still wobbly and he’s barely as a big as a rat - he’d rather not get eaten after spending all his karmic points on this life.

Harry ends up following him around as he grows bigger, his legs become longer, and they start eating solid food. At first he feeds on their mother’s scraps, but soon he’d big enough to knock bins over and scrounge for leftovers there. Harry and his mother seem to have remarkably poor notions of what is edible and what isn’t, and he has to snap and growl at them to prevent them from ingesting tin foil and a used nappy. Leftovers are repugnant to him at first, but he swallows his pride and ends up gratefully wolfing down the half eaten burgers and kebabs they find.

John is not sure whether more people are cruel to dogs than he thought, or if his appearance as a mangy-looking stray is particularly repulsive. In any case, humans are no help at all: in fact, they’re invariably hostile, ignoring him at best, and shouting and throwing rocks at worst. Once, a small boy beckons him over with a mouthwatering piece of chicken. The boy is smiling and John is starved for both food and perhaps a little kindness. Unfortunately the boy’s gentle movements turn vicelike as soon as he lays his hands on him, gripping his fur and pulling his ear with a nasty laugh. John only escapes by planting his tiny milk teeth into the boy’s wrist, and ends up bruised as the boy kicks him roughly away. After that, he gives all humans a wide berth. He could never imagine being a pet anyways, although he still frequently dreams of eating takeout in the warmth of 221B.

A map of London is one of his human memories he revisits most often. He always reminds himself of the route to Baker Street for when he’s big enough. His mother and Harry seem reluctant to leave the small neighbourhood where they prowl; there are a fair few restaurants that provide good pickings for leftovers, although they often have to fight off other strays to keep their meal. Hunger and cold are his near-constant companions. It’s not great, but his human memories and a canine instinct for survival keep him going.

After four months John reckons he’s large enough to fend for himself. His mother shows signs of being tired of him and Harry anyways, refusing to let them suckle and growling when they try to share meals. Harry follows him, and he doesn’t mind. She’s helpful, and together they devise a routine where she barks at the door, distracting the cook, while John sneaks in and nabs something from the kitchen. Then they share the spoils, and as he gnaws on a large beef bone that tastes like heaven, John feels a gratifying sense of freedom and victory he hasn’t felt in a long time.

John decides to leave their territory behind and cross the eight or so miles to Baker Street sometimes in May - it’s hard keeping track of the date (the Easter decorations in the shops came, now it’s Mother’s Day gifts). It’s early morning and he recognises the Tesco’s, the Lloyds bank in the street corner, and finally, finally, Speedy’s and 221B. John hides from view on a staircase on the other side of the street, excitement buzzing in his stomach. He wonders how Sherlock is doing and how he’ll have coped with John’s death; if he’s still solving cases. He waits a whole day and a whole night but nothing comes in or out of the apartment. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, the faint sound of violin reaches his ears. He trots across the street to just below the windows and listens. Sherlock is playing a tune, nothing he recognises - but it’s incredibly sad, slow and melancholy. It reminds John of Sherlock’s composition when they thought Irene Adler had died. _He’s still grieving me_ , John realises. It makes him feel terribly sad but also just a little bit pleased, that Sherlock would be playing such heartfelt music four months on.

It’s gone on long enough though. Knowing Sherlock, he probably hasn’t stepped out of the flat, hasn’t been eating properly, and has probably been a nightmare to deal with. John knows the sociopath label is self-diagnosed and patently untrue. He hopes Sherlock is at least still clean. Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will have been making sure.

John sneaks around the back. Maybe Mrs Hudson is up already. He whines and scratches at the door. Harry hangs back, ears back and tail lowered in worry. After two minutes the door opens, and Mrs Hudson is standing there in her nighty. The sight of her floods him with relief and happiness. She looks well, despite the bed hair, he notices happily. He wags his tail and whines in what he hopes is a friendly manner.

Mrs Hudson looks down on him, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Well good morning, what’s this?”

John gives a small bark, and lowers his torso with his haunches sticking up, tail wagging. _Come on, I’m a cute puppy, give me something_.

He tries to remember what dog tricks he’d found endearing as a human. He gives Mrs Hudson a show, sitting back and lifting his right paw, then rolling over on his back, tongue lolling out. Mrs Hudson watches. Thank goodness, she seems to find his antics amusing.

“Well, aren’t you a clever one, who taught you all these tricks? I suppose you’re expecting something in return?”

John barks his approval. Mrs Hudson turns away from the door, presumably to fetch him some leftovers. He sees his opportunity and trots into the kitchen and the hallway. The front door is closed, but no matter: he reaches up on his hind legs and can just barely reach the handle with his paw, lowering it while pushing against the frame with his weight. The door opens and he rushes up the stairs to 221B, leaving Mrs Hudson’s confused protests behind.

_Finally_. He’s in front of 221B’s door. Sherlock is still playing the violin. So close. He scratches the door, whines, barks and makes a ruckus.

The door opens just as Mrs Hudson reaches the landing. He feels his small canine heart is about to burst as he’s finally looking at Sherlock again. He looks a mess, his hair a wild mop, his face too thin, his eyes gaunt, but it’s Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Determined not to be scooped up by Mrs Hudson who’s already apologising for the noise, he slips in past Sherlock’s legs into the flat. Nothing has changed in five months. The furniture, the skull, the chemistry lab on the kitchen table, a thousand pungent smells. John’s not sure whether the flat smells particularly foul or if it’s just that his nose is now a lot more sensitive. Still, it’s home. Satisfied that everything is more or less as it should be, he leaps into his old armchair and looks back at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, flabbergasted.

“Really, Sherlock, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, one second he was begging for scraps at the back door, the next he was running up here. Come here, boy, come here,” she says tapping her knees, “there’s food for you in the kitchen! I doubt you’d find anything edible in Sherlock’s flat.”

John wags his tails and barks. He lies down in the armchair, clearly showing he has no intention of going anywhere.

Sighing, Mrs Hudson steps forward and attempts to pick him up. She’s gentle but as his fingers close in on him he yelps bloody murder. She lets go of him, surprised by the sudden noise, and he leaps back onto his old armchair.

_Please, this is where I need to be_. He whines, looking at Sherlock, cursing his lack of vocal cords. _I want to stay here. Let me_.

Sherlock still hasn’t said a word, but his eyes are observing John. That’s good. He needs to make Sherlock curious, give him something unusual, so Sherlock will let him stay. If he can’t explain to Sherlock he’s a reincarnated John Watson he can at least do something sufficiently unusual to capture his interest.

A sudden idea strikes him. He leaps off the armchair and runs to the kitchen. He leaps onto a chair then on the kitchen counter, almost knocking over several beakers. It takes some effort, but he lodges a clumsy paw into the half open crack of the cupboard, opens it wider with his muzzle, and sniffs inside. He finds the box he’s looking for and grabs it as delicately as he can with his teeth. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson have followed him into the kitchen. Mrs Hudson makes another attempt to grab him. He skitters away, accidentally knocking over a beaker that crashes to the floor. Mrs Hudson chases him, and he goes around the table, the box still in his jaws, a high-pitched growl in his throat.

“Enough!”

Sherlock’s voice cuts through the scene in the kitchen and they both stop and look at him.

John pads forward towards Sherlock, tail wagging and ears back.

Sherlock looks down on him.

“Sit,” he says.

John does.

“Give me that.” He opens a hand for the box. John gently drops it.

Sherlock stares at the box with amazement.

“Tea?”

John barks his approval.

“You want… tea?”

John barks again, tail wagging. Sherlock crouches down and extends his other hand slowly. John politely sniffs it without touching it. There’s a dozen different smells; mostly tobacco (he’s started smoking again!) and Sherlock’s expensive herbal body wash.

Sherlock’s large hand (it’s bigger than John’s head now) moves forward, and almost makes contact with John’s nose. John wants to accept the touch, but his body flinches and takes two steps back, ears flattening against his head. The thought of human hands on him - even Sherlock’s - is frightening.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but it’s not in anger or disapproval. John knows that look, Sherlock’s big brain processing information. He flatmate stands up again. John was already shorter than his flatmate as a human: now it feels like looking up at a skyscraper.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind me keeping him in the flat?”

Mrs Hudson scoffs. “Between the experiments and the violin, dear, it’s not as if a dog is going to make much difference. You will have to feed him, walk him, and teach him some manners though. It’s not good for him to stay cooped up in a small flat all day.” That last remark is heavy with meaning, which Sherlock ignores.

“If he managed to find his way up here, I’m sure he’s fine with walking himself. I’ll buy him some dog food. As for manners…” Sherlock stands up. “Lie down.”

John lies down obediently.

“Shake.”

John sits up again and politely offers up his right paw.

“Speak.”

John barks, feeling a bit like a circus animal.

“I daresay he’s been taught enough already.”

“You’ll have to take him to the vet. Goodness knows he looks like he could do with some proper care.”

John should be concerned about the vet; getting poked and prodded on a metal table and probably injected with a chip doesn’t sound like a fun experience. But he doesn’t care. He’s with Sherlock, and Sherlock is letting him stay. He wants to leap and run in happiness. Things are going to be ok. He’ll take care of Sherlock.

“He also needs a name.”

“I’ll think of one,” Sherlock says dismissively.

_John. I’m John,_ he whines. But it’s ok. Sherlock could call him Fido for all he cares. He’s back at 221B. That’s all that matters.


End file.
